


King Tide

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Success goes sour and Justin needs to find a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King Tide

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song "King Tide" by Neil Finn, which inspired this. Thanks to TNL for the beta. Set after the breakup of 'N Sync, which, when this was written, had not yet occurred.

There were vultures outside his door, and he didn't dare go outside anymore.

He'd tried at first, in the early days. But they were everywhere he went. Where once he would have scoffed and pushed past them, or let another's broad hand do it for him, now he couldn't stop their attacks. Their words rang sharp and brittle and hurtful in his ears. It was easier to retreat to the guilty darkness, making his forays for food and necessities under cover of darkness instead, avoiding the places he'd once been well-known to frequent.

He hated sunlight now.

 

The last time he'd seen the others was still sharply etched in his memory. He remembered JC's regretful eyes, Chris's resigned look, the way Lance had stared at the door. Most of all he remembered Joey's sympathetic face and how he'd hated it, wanted to wipe the sympathy off with a slap or a punch. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted the group to not end.

 

He'd taken to keeping the curtains drawn over the windows of whatever room he was in. His mother would come by occasionally with food, fretting at how everything was dark and smelled stale, so to keep her happy, he tried to keep things maintained. The maid had stopped coming a while back. He guessed he'd forgotten to pay her. Maybe his money had run out. He found it hard to care anymore.

At some point he heard someone knocking on the door, and that was strange, because his mother never knocked; she just let herself in. He cracked open a blind, blinking teary eyes against the glare of sunlight, and looked down from his bedroom window. There was a minivan in the driveway. Blue. He recognized it as Joey's after a moment.

"Open up, man, you gotta come out." Joey's voice filtered upstairs. Justin let the curtains fall shut again and sank down against the wall. The doors were locked. He'd changed the security code on the alarm system. That bill, he knew, was paid and up to date.

 

Every now and then he picked up his favorite acoustic guitar, a battered Ovation that had gone on tour with them several years back. His callouses were long gone, though, and music didn't really seem to want to come out of him anymore. He usually put it down after a few weak chords, embarrassed by the croak of his voice.

Sometimes he thought of writing a song about it, but words didn't seem big enough to encompass all of it. He'd filled a notebook with scrawling verse, though, or rambling observations about the idiocy of the press, management, fans, the others, himself. The pen had seemed to channel his thoughts, forcing himself to think about what had happened and why. Sometimes it was all clear. Other times it jumbled together in his memory, and he couldn't tell if he was recalling that night or another, Chris's sharp bright smile and the smell of alcohol and a hand tugging on his arm and a stranger's dark promising eyes and he knew they were all unrelated things that he was forcing together in an attempt to reconstruct the evening.

Those times, he found the beer he'd hidden away and let everything fade to buzzing blurriness. No one cared now how drunk he got, least of all him. It certainly wasn't as if he had somewhere to be in the morning.

 

"Justin!"

The voice was closer now. Justin raised his head and attempted to focus his swimming vision. It was no use. The paler blur moved closer to him and he realized that someone was there. But the voice wasn't his mother's. He was confused; no one else had the security code.

"Jesus, you're fucking wasted," and it was Joey, his voice disapproving, annoyed-sounding. Justin shook his head, or tried to.

"Go away, Joe," he mumbled.

He was aware of the room lurching, but he didn't fully realize what was happening until the cold water hit him. He screeched, but Joey held him under the water, gripping his arms with more force than, Justin thought resentfully, was strictly necessary. After a while, he quit struggling and Joey let him slump against the wall of the shower.

His head was pounding, so he didn't really pay much attention while Joey efficiently undressed him, wrapped a thick towel around his waist, draped another over his shoulders, and sat him down on the toilet. Joey was a bit slower to strip out of his clothes, but Justin didn't really care to pay much attention, except to note that Joey had -- surprisingly -- kept himself in shape since the last time Justin had seen him. Justin tried to remember when that was, but then he realized he didn't know what day it was, so he let the line of thought trail off. It was too hard to think with the pressure against his eyes, anyway.

Some time had passed when Joey's hands urged him to his feet. He followed, his eyelids fluttering, giving him brief glimpses of the carpet, the dim cavern of his bedroom. Joey put him on the bed, and he curved gratefully under the warmth of clean sheets, fresh and cool and soft. He didn't even protest when Joey opened a window, flooding the room with light and a bright breeze. Instead, he closed his eyes and slept.

 

He woke at some point, aware of Joey's arms around him. He didn't like that. He pulled away, grumbling, and Joey reflexively pulled him closer. Justin sighed and let him. He didn't want Joey there, but he wasn't in much position to protest. Later, he promised himself, he'd tell Joey to go.

 

When he climbed out of slumber next, the room was dark, and he thought with weary relief that he was alone. But the window was still open. It was night, according to the digital clock on the dresser. Justin stood, dizzied for a moment at the blood rush, and reached for the boxers he could usually find on the floor. They were gone. Cursing, he got up and rummaged in a drawer. Nothing.

He found a towel and hitched it around his waist. After a trip to the bathroom, he headed to the hallway, wrinkling his nose at the unusual smell of food wafting through the house. He could hear, more distantly, the washing machine at work, grinding contentedly to itself. 'Joey's fuckin' moved in on me,' he thought to himself, perturbed, and took the stairs slowly.

"You're awake," Joey said, and, "eat," and put a plate of pancakes at the table. Justin opened his mouth to protest and realized he was practically drooling from the warm, doughy sweet smell. He sat down and ate greedily, putting away everything Joey set in front of him, hardly noticing when Joey left the room to switch loads of laundry in the dryer. The fluorescent light in the kitchen was, he allowed grudgingly, not so painful.

 

Indeed it seemed as if Joey had entrenched himself, and Justin kept trying to kick him out and find reasons not to. Joey opened all the windows and went to work cleaning the house, which Justin admitted could definitely use it. He found it pleasant to sit and watch -- Joey teased him about his helpfulness, or lack thereof, but didn't seem to mind -- while Joey vacuumed, mopped floors, changed bedding and cleaned cobwebs from corners. After a while, Justin started to feel bad, so he made sandwiches -- someone had gone shopping, too, since the refrigerator actually had food in it now instead of a jar of pickles and half a bottle of mustard -- and made Joey eat them. Joey grinned at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, as he chewed.

Justin felt something jar in his chest. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling.

 

They'd been dumb. He knew that now. It was the shameless ignorance arrogance of youth that had fueled his reckless abandon. No one would see him, and if they did, they'd be someone he could pay off, silence. So he'd flung his head back against the wall, golden curls a poor cushion for the hard curve of his skull, and closed his eyes and let the other man's mouth move down his bare chest, had sunk long fingers into that rich profusion of hair and groaned -- his voice lost in the harsh bass pounding from speakers all around them -- when a hot mouth engulfed his cock.

The brightness strobing against his closed eyelids was just a switch in the club's lighting, he'd thought. Only when his companion had pulled back with a horrified cry had Justin opened his eyes, realizing all too late that he'd been caught, by eyes and film and there was no taking this back, no explaining it away or paying it off.

"Justin Timberlake in Gay Scandal!" He remembered the headlines clearly. "*NSYNC Singer Out Of The Closet In Gay Club!"

Of course they'd had to stop. Their record sales had dropped to nothing. Parent groups protested all over the country. Mothers cried on television about the image, about how ‘N Sync had used their popularity to influence children into homosexuality. The decision to "go on hiatus", as Johnny had kindly termed it, was mutual.

Justin had said nothing throughout that meeting. Until just now, when Joey had showed up, it had been the last time he'd seen any of them for two years.

 

He woke up that night remembering the meeting, and the harrying press outside the Jive offices afterwards, their competing cries like the screams of carrion birds. He wasn't aware that he himself was making any noise until Joey began to stroke his hair and make soothing nonsense sounds.

Dimly, he realized that this was perhaps the first time he'd remembered that until now. The walls holding back those memories were crumbling. He wanted them back. He didn't want to remember.

 

Joey was still there in the morning. Justin rolled over in bed and listened to him singing in the shower. Opera, he realized with some disbelief. Something Italian, maybe. Joey sounded at home. Like he belonged there.

Justin put his head under the pillows. Maybe if he pretended Joey wasn't there for long enough, he'd leave.

 

Laying in bed that night, watching Joey undress without any trace of self-consciousness, he finally found voice to the question that had been under his tongue for two days now. "Why are you here?"

"Don't be a moron, J," Joey said, climbing into bed and arranging the comforter over them.

"Fuck you." Justin's voice was a whisper. "I asked you a question."

Joey was quiet for a minute. He put a heavy arm over Justin's waist before answering. "People were starting to freak, man. Your mom said she was worried about you. You're skin and bones, so. I figured I'd come over and try to. you know. help."

Justin closed his eyes and tried to breathe. When he turned away from Joey and curled up, Joey pressed himself against his back. Dully, Justin registered the heat at Joey's groin, searing his buttocks. "You don't have to sleep in here," he muttered. "You're. like. turned on and shit."

"You need it." Joey seemed to think that settled things and fell asleep all at once. Justin supposed he couldn't blame Joey for being tired. He'd cleaned out the gutters today, and the garage, and mowed the lawn. Vaguely Justin wondered about where Kelly and Brianna were. Then he fell asleep too.

 

He told Joey he was feeling better the next morning, that he could take off if he wanted to. Joey gave him one of those looks that said clearly: Justin had no clue what the fuck he was talking about. Justin was starting to feel more ill-at-ease the longer Joey stayed and cleaned his house, though. He really wanted Joey to leave so he could close his curtains and draw the shades and make things musty and shut up again.

Joey caught him in one of the guest rooms, the curtains drawn, and scowled, grabbing Justin's hand. "Doesn't work that way, man."

"I don't care about outside," Justin argued.

"You have to face it sometime. Your mom's not gonna bring your food over any more." When Justin turned an obstinate face on him, Joey flung the curtain open, then left the room.

Justin followed him a minute later.

 

"Get your coat on," Joey said the next day.

"Not going outside," Justin said, and got his beige jacket flung in his face for that. He shrugged into it, grumbling at Joey. Joey couldn't make him go outside. Joey proceeded to prove him wrong by grabbing Justin's hand and hauling him out the door.

But there was no one at the door, no cameras going off, no reporters pushing microphones in his face. Justin blinked in the unaccustomed sunlight. It was kind of nice. He'd forgotten the feel of wind and warmth.

"Nothing stressful," Joey promised, and so they just drove for a while. Justin stared out the window. Everything looked familiar and different at the same time. He noticed a new development in one place, a torn-down shopping center another. He wondered if it really had been that long since he'd stepped outside the house. The thought bothered him.

 

Joey had cleaned off the weight equipment, so Justin started working out again. He hated the fact that he had to stop after two reps or ten minutes or whatever, that his endurance was shot and his stamina pathetic. He went for a run two days later, voluntarily, dragging himself back to the house much sooner than he'd have liked, and didn't notice Joey's surprised smile.

 

That night, exhausted, he said it again. "Why are you here?"

"For you, Justin." Joey spoke into Justin's collarbone.

"What about Kelly?"

Joey went still. Justin's arms clenched around him.

"I still get to see Bree all the time. She's. She's so beautiful, J. I'll take you over to see her, if you want."

Justin was surprised to find that he rather did want.

 

Kelly was brittle, but Brianna ran up to Justin and threw her arms around him without reservation. Justin held himself still, astonished at how big Joey's daughter was, at how beautiful her round face and shining blue eyes were. She grabbed his hand and dragged him off to show off her toys. Justin followed helplessly, and spent the next few hours visiting, lost in a five-year-old's world of innocent delight.

When Joey drove them back, Justin wiped at his wet face with his fingers. Joey said nothing.

 

"We were so stupid," he said another time, in the middle of dinner, and Joey just nodded quietly.

"The others miss you," he offered.

The thought of Chris made his heart jerk. Of Lance, of JC. Joey had rambled about what they were doing now -- Chris happy with his girlfriend, pregnant now; FuMan had branched out beyond expectations, and he was keeping himself busy, but missed the group. Lance had his hands full with FreeLance: he'd become a full-time manager of five artists, but still made time to hang out with Joey whenever he was in Orlando. And JC now owned his own studio; a well-regarded name in the industry, his production talents were sought after by nearly everyone.

Justin shook his head. He wasn't ready to see them yet.

"Soon, J," Joey said. Justin knew better than to argue.

 

That night he kissed Joey. Joey inhaled sharply through his nose, and then broke the kiss gently, pushing Justin back. "Go to sleep, baby," he said. Justin hated being called that, mostly because his mom still called him ‘baby' to this day.

"Joey," Justin said. "I know you're not. You can't. Let me do this for you."

"It's not a good idea." But Joey closed his eyes, and Justin pushed him back and climbed over him, putting a hand in Joey's soft hair, dizzied and thrumming just at Joey's heated kisses. Joey opened his mouth and Justin eagerly sucked on his tongue, frantic with need. He'd heard Joey beating off in the bathroom for days now. He wanted to taste him, wanted to know what it felt like. He was already so hard it hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had an orgasm.

Joey's hands came up and settled on his waist, steadying him. Justin thrust against him, rocking into the hardness that mirrored, straining under a thin, distended layer of cotton. It was over in moments, and Justin let out a sob and buried his face in Joey's neck, hot with embarrassment.

"Shh, shh." Joey brought a hand slowly down Justin's back, making new ripples of sensation roll down his spine. He rolled them over then peeled Justin's wet boxers off, tossing them to the floor where his own landed a moment later. "We'll do this right. It's OK, J. It's good. It'll be good."

Justin had only been experimenting that night that everything had gone wrong, but he'd known then with some surety that he had been made for this, made for Joey's hands to caress, for his lips to kiss, for his cock to fill. This time his orgasm seemed to last from the moment Joey's finger, glistening with lube, first breached him, until the moment when he arched and gasped, his legs wrapped around Joey's waist, and felt his own ejaculate spatter his chest.

He slept soundly that night, his arms locked around Joey's ribs.

 

Joey wasn't there in the morning. Justin woke up startled at first, then shocked when he realized that Joey's side of the bed was empty and cool. He didn't even think about it as he grabbed his keys and started the Porsche, backing out of the driveway and taking off for Joey's with his heart rabbiting in his chest.

The minivan was in the driveway, though, and when he burst into the front door, panting, Joey appeared at the top of the stairs with a confused expression on his face.

"You left me," Justin was saying, over and over, "you left me you left me you left me--"

Joey sat down on the stairs with Justin in his arms, kissing his hair. "It's OK, J, sweetheart, I promise, I just left to get some clothes. I was going to come back."

"Don't leave me," Justin whispered. "Please."

"I won't. I promise."

Justin put his nose against Joey's chest and grinned to himself. Later, they had sex in Joey's big bed, and then Justin drove Joey back with a laundry basket full of clean clothes and some of his books and a few DVDs. "You're not leaving," Justin said solemnly. "You promised." Joey laughed and nodded.

 

"Let's go shopping," Justin said later that week, tired of throwing popcorn at Joey while they watched _Willy Wonka_ for approximately the billionth time.

Joey raised an eyebrow at Justin, smiling. "Sure, J." They'd been sitting there, curled up on the couch, while Joey told Justin about his most recent conversation with JC, how he wanted them all to get together for a backyard barbecue -- just the five of them -- and the song he'd been working on, and Justin had been nodding agreeably to all of it. As Joey stood up, shaking popcorn out of his hair, he commented, "You know, Chris wants us to, you know. Get the group back together."

Justin's eyes went wide, and for a moment he sat very still. Then a tentative smile crept across his face. "Really?"

Joey nodded, smiling back. "Really."

"OK, but one condition. We have to be public. You and me."

He didn't even have to think about it. "All right."

Justin felt himself shaking when he stood up and put his arms around Joey. "I wanted you to leave," he said. "When you first came over."

"I know." Joey's voice was wry. "I remember. You told me. A lot."

"I was s-so mad at you."

"It's OK, J."

"You're sure?" Justin pulled back, looking warily at Joey, who just nodded. "OK," he said, and took a slow breath. "Let's go shopping."


End file.
